


Right Hand Red

by ActualHurry



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualHurry/pseuds/ActualHurry
Summary: Shin helps Drifter test some guns. Drifter helps Shin test a knife. Everybody gets something out of it.
Relationships: The Drifter/Shin Malphur
Comments: 8
Kudos: 95





	Right Hand Red

**Author's Note:**

> *points at tags*  
> *points louder*
> 
> Okay, now you can go.

Drifter’s first shot barely touches Shin’s shields; it’s the next that shreds them. The third bullet streaks through Shin’s leg and he can’t stop his sharp hiss. He stumbles, the bitter sting of broken skin and the searing heat of being shot competing for priority in his head.

His Ghost hovers nearby, out of the line of fire. Shin holds his hand up to stop it from engaging any healing for now. He takes a deep breath, wincing as he puts weight on his leg. 

“It’s cosmetic,” he finally says, the mic in his helmet picking up the words. “If I’d been in the middle of a fight, it would’ve barely slowed me down.” As it is, he’s not in a fight, and so it only _fucking hurts._

Shin rolls his shoulders back, then gestures to his Ghost. “Also, you need to aim higher,” he says as it heals him up, though he still feels the blood smeared under his clothes.

“ _How much higher?_ ” Drifter asks through his end of their comms.

Shin gets the distinct impression he’s probably aiming somewhere unkind, and so he flicks the bird in his direction. Drifter’s bark of laughter confirms it for him. 

Shin’s made a lot of stupid decisions in his life (not that he would ever say so), but agreeing to help Drifter test out his newly kitbashed armory is pretty up there on the list. Thing is, Drifter can’t take most of these things into the Crucible without endangering his nice little agreement with the Vanguard, and he’s not about to give some guns that haven’t been QA’d to anyone playing Gambit, which leaves precious few options for testing out their lethality against Guardians.

In fact, it leaves the only option: volunteers acting as test dummies. Except there’s only one volunteer, and it’s Shin. 

_“So…you open to testing a grenade launcher after this?”_

“No.” Shin moves closer to Drifter’s little setup, scuffing his boots through the dirt while he counts his steps. “Try this distance. Scout rifle, not sniper, right?” 

Drifter makes a _pff!_ noise. _“If I was usin’ the sniper, your Ghost would’ve had to collect your brains from the ground before piecin’ you together again. Thing’s a monster.”_

“We’re testing the sniper?” 

_“Brother, we’re testin’ them all.”_ There’s a pause before Drifter adds, sounding distinctly like he’s pouting, _“Except the grenade launcher. No such thing as good help anymore.”_

“I can leave.” 

Drifter’s voice goes sweet as sugar: _“Now, now, don’t do that. Ain’t even given you your reward yet.”_

Shin rolls his eyes. The moment that he stops moving up their improvised shooting range, Drifter fires the next series of shots. True to Shin’s advice, he aims higher this time, the bullet dematerializing against his shields where it strikes him in the chest. The shorter range means it takes the one to burst through, though, and the second pull of the trigger catches him in the stomach. The third he feels _very insistently_ lodged in his ribs.

Shin swears and ducks from the fourth. “Okay, okay!” He coughs twice, then grimaces as he checks the wounds, blood already staining his gear. “That’s better. That’s…fuck.” Shin’s chest flutters with the pain, but tips his head towards the sky and keeps his breaths shallow. “Shields down in one.”

_“Not bad.”_

Shin beckons his Ghost, sighing as he’s healed. “One more and I would’ve been down. Headshots…maybe would’ve done it in two.” 

Drifter must be pleased enough with that; even from here, Shin can see him unload the rest of the ammo, then lean the gun up against the boulder he’s sitting by. The hand cannon, submachine gun, auto rifle, and pulse rifle are all lined up next to him, already given the all-clear. 

Shin thinks the submachine gun was the worst of ‘em, and from the way Drifter flinched back and glanced down to the cannon on Shin’s hip with every flurry of bullets, Shin’s sure he feels the same. Doesn’t matter that he’d given his word not to shoot back; Drifter knows exactly how much his word is good for.

_“Well, guess that’s that,”_ Drifter says cheerfully, flicking off their comms as Shin nears. “I’ll put ‘em in rotation soon enough.” 

Shin nods his head at the sniper rifle still laying flat on the soil next to Drifter. “We’re not done yet, are we?” 

Drifter looks between the sniper and Shin, Shin and the sniper. “Oh, you _want_ to deal with that one?” He sounds thrilled at the concept.

Shin turns a special ammo synth around in his hand a couple times, then tosses it Drifter’s way. “Aim for the head,” Shin calls over his shoulder, already walking. 

About halfway down, their comms flicker to life once more.

_“You’re a crazy bastard, you know that? Ha.”_ Drifter says, a smile in his voice. _“Fair warnin’. This one’s got max range. Slapped a couple mods on it already. It comes special.”_

“Got tired of fixing up those pretty bows?” 

_“Arrows, see, those come straight from the hand, sink right in like a knife. Some players really like the connection they get with the kill that way. You can sympathize, right?”_ Drifter blows out a breath; Shin hears him settling into a proper sniper’s position, the click of the metal, the hoist of the gun. _“But what about the people who wanna be real calculatin’ about it? Some people’re born with a cold shoulder. Bows’re too_ personal _for ‘em. So, I ask you: What’s colder than long distance?”_

Shin stops at the farthest mark in the dirt and turns around. Drifter’s only a dot, far, far off now. Narrowing his eyes, Shin considers – yeah, his Golden Gun could still make this shot. He wonders if Drifter knows that.

The sniper scope glitters with promise.

“You want an answer?” Shin asks.

_“Nah, I already got one.”_

The sound of the sniper firing doesn’t even hit Shin’s ears before the world snaps into view again, the sun almost too bright for freshly resurrected eyes. He digs his boots into the ground to orient himself, hears Drifter moving weapons around to the right, and when he looks, Drifter’s all packed up and smug. Kind of his Ghost to save him the walk back.

“Good,” Shin says, blinking a few times ‘til the spots are out of his vision.

Drifter flashes a grin at him, all smug confidence and sharp teeth. “Oh, yeah. I know.”

Imagining he can remember the split of his skull from the force of the bullet, Shin transmats his helmet off and touches his brow. “What’re you naming it?” 

Drifter sends his weapons off to the Derelict, or maybe the Annex, and glances at Shin. He shrugs. “Got a couple ideas in mind already. But nothin’ for sure…yet.” With an entertained twist to his smirk, Drifter adds, “Thanks for lendin’ a hand.”

“I think I lended more than a hand.” 

“Ha! I’ll say.” 

Shin wonders how soon he’ll see the new pieces run through the gauntlet. Soon, he expects. Drifter’s quick when it comes to his work and Shin can’t deny the efficiency. 

“Y’know,” Drifter says, dry and amused, “I still can’t believe you said yes in the first place. Were you just feelin’ nice that day?” 

Shin frowns, able to remember exactly how nice he was feeling:

_Drifter’s mouth, hot breaths on the inside of his thigh, biting into his skin, fingers in Drifter’s hair and grabbing Drifter’s sheets and he swears Drifter asked him a question but it doesn’t matter what it is, he moans yesyesyes and Drifter licks a long, wet stripe up his_

“…You’re welcome,” Shin says, a beat late. 

Drifter laughs like he knows what he’s thinking, then sighs a long, satisfied sigh. “Alright. Alright! You want your treat, right?” 

Shin thinks about it and decides there’s only a very small handful of things he could imagine wanting from Drifter, most of them requiring a bed, or at least a hard surface. Or not. On second thought, it turns out he’s not really that picky. “Depends on what it is,” he answers.

“S’cuse _me_ , Mr. Legend,” replies Drifter, with all the sarcasm in the world. He must be in a good mood. “If you’re gonna be that much of an asshole about it, maybe I just won’t give you a damn thing at all.” 

“You just shot me full of bullets for the last hour. Think I got the right to wanna get outta here.”

Drifter sneers at him. “I did it nicely, though, didn’t I?”

As nicely as somebody _could_ do it, maybe. Shin pushes his fingers through his hair, then massages the nape of his neck. “What’s the reward? Aside from you sayin’ thanks.” 

Drifter grins and points up before he’s gone, transmatted away. Shin shakes the hood off his head before he follows.

There’s a table on the Derelict’s catwalk, a deck of cards neatly stacked on it. Drifter’s already sitting there, feet propped up on the table. He’s flipping a knife through the air, lazy and casual about it, and Shin catches sight of the blade’s gleaming shape between tosses.

“You makin’ knives now, too?” he asks, taking a seat adjacent to Drifter.

“Only for the people I think need ‘em,” Drifter says kindly, in a way that sounds much like _only for the people I think need ‘em in the ribs._ He catches the handle of the knife and then, almost quicker than Shin can track, slams the knife into the table blade-down, splitting the wood, metal sliding right into the fibers. It’s less than half an inch away from Shin’s pinky, too. 

Shin tilts his head at Drifter, who huffs. “Not even a flinch,” Drifter grumbles, leaning back in his chair again. He waves a hand at the knife. “That’s yours. How’s that for one of a kind?” 

“I get a knife for helping with guns?” Shin’s amused. He reaches for the handle, tugging the blade out from the table so he can properly admire it. 

It’s definitely not like any knife Shin’s ever seen. The metal is a shiny black, dark and deep like it’s been dipped in ink, and just the length he likes. The handle’s leathery and strong, thick to hold and balanced properly with the blade. Looks like it’s got the same resiliency as the leather he uses in his Gambit weapons. The edge is sharp – both sides are, he realizes – and, interest piqued, Shin runs the knife across the pad of his glove. It makes a clean slice, opens up the thick material like it’s nothing.

“Spinmetal and relic iron,” Drifter recites, “infused with some dusklight, coated _generously_. It sharpens up easy. But I got mats leftover and the blueprint, so you ruin it and you got the Glimmer, I can make another. The least I can do, isn’t it?” 

Oh, Shin wants it. 

He looks at Drifter’s prideful leer. Then he extends the knife back to him. Drifter’s face curtains instantly.

“You spent all that time today showin’ off your guns to me, so show this off,” Shin says before Drifter can tell him he’s ungrateful. “Give it the same respect. It’s a weapon. I need somethin’ I know can do more than ruin a dinner table.”

It has the intended effect: Drifter opens his mouth, shuts it, and then snatches the knife from Shin. “Fine,” he growls, “what do you wanna see? I got some armor I was gonna dismantle in the…” 

He trails off as Shin purposefully places his right hand on the table again. Drifter meets his gaze, something dark and frantic flashing across his face.

“Well?” Shin prompts. He nods down at his hand. “Pull the trigger.” 

“You’re nuts,” Drifter says, flat.

“You sniped me in the head earlier. I figured this was nothing in comparison. Give it back and I’ll do it to you if you won’t—” 

Shin cuts himself off with a sharp, strangled sound as the blade pierces his hand straight through. He takes a slow breath between his teeth, posture as rigid as the table he’s pinned to now. If he hadn’t expected it, maybe it wouldn’t have made him stiffen up so much. The surprise would’ve kicked in before the pain, but the way Drifter’s lip curled right before…he’s got too many tells for a man trying to gamble all the time.

“My hand slipped,” Drifter growls. He lets go of the handle.

Shin laughs lightly, then winces when the motion of his shoulders shakes his arm. The wound stings, aches, and feels too hot, but it seems like a clean stab through muscle. No excess tearing of the skin. It’s smooth as far as knife wounds go. Shin tries to flex a couple of his fingers and can’t; ah, shame. Red oozes out of the slim space between the knife and his flesh.

Drifter’s staring at him. “Think I might’ve shot you one too many times.” 

“You give me a tool, I wanna be sure the tool works as intended before I take it to the field.”

Drifter looks as if he has many different remarks to that, but he only scoffs. “Well, what’s your plan now? Pull it out and let your Ghost knit up all your diced tendons again, then go ‘n get cozy with some Dredgen guts?” 

Shin blinks. “Was actually thinkin’ while I’m here…well…” 

There’s a moment of surprised silence before Drifte replies, “I am _so damn sure_ I scrambled your brain.” He narrows his eyes. “This turn you on or somethin’? You get hot for being stabbed?”

“Different strokes, different folks,” Shin says, but he’s starting to feel his heartbeat pounding in the center of his palm right around the wound, and it doesn’t feel great. “Actually, I’d sincerely prefer if the knife was gone now.” 

Drifter gives him a funny look, closing some of the gap to grip the knife’s handle again. Shin snags his robes in his stab-free hand and tugs him in. Drifter nearly topples the table catching himself on it, and Shin flinches as Drifter moves the knife into another angle without pulling it out, but he still yanks Drifter the rest of the way. 

Their lips meet too harshly to start the kiss in any way that isn’t rough and unyielding. Shin licks into his mouth, Drifter’s responsive noise only lighting a fire under him all the more. He runs his tongue across Drifter’s, chin tipped high so he can reach, and Drifter bites his lip, so Shin pays him back by biting harder, better. He tastes copper when he breaks for breath.

Drifter bumps his hip against the table as he moves around the side of it. Jostled, the blade sinks deeper into Shin’s flesh, and he gasps with it. Leaning over him now, Drifter braces his knee between Shin’s legs, tossing a glance over to the table.

“You’re such a damn freak,” Drifter breathes, red smeared at the corner of his mouth.

Shin moves his hand to Drifter’s nape, pulling him down, then flicks his tongue out to catch a trace of blood from Drifter’s lip. “Yeah,” he says. “So leave me here.” 

Drifter hums and kisses him, teases Shin with long, slow licks and hints of teeth, distracts him so well that when he starts to pull the knife out of Shin’s hand, Shin almost doesn’t realize it. _Almost_ – but the pain’s a real good reminder.

It’s not quick, either. Drifter doesn’t yank the knife right out. He pulls slow, easy, the drag of the metal against the irritated, wounded flesh like an agony and a relief all at once. Drifter muffles Shin’s small noise with his mouth, tastes like blood, kisses like he’s hungry for it. Shin can only groan. He’s not into pain, not like this, not in a way that makes him feverish and wanting, but even with the ache shooting up his arm, he _wants_.

Drifter nudges his knee between Shin’s legs and Shin grips the back of his neck like a lifeline, digging greedy fingers in to keep him there while he rolls his hips, chasing friction. He drops his head back against the chair with a _thud_ when the knife comes free, blood dripping off the metal and dirtying the table, seeping hot and sticky out of Shin’s palm.

Shin raises his injured hand to his mouth, biting down on a fingertip to pull the glove off, letting it fall to the floor. He’s breathing too fast, can’t get his hand to move quite right. When he tries, the blood trails heavier down his knuckles, dripping down onto his pants. 

He glances up. Drifter’s staring at him with dark eyes, silhouetted by light above. The knife clatters as Drifter drops it to the table.

“I like the knife,” Shin says, only half-strained now. He hooks his ankle around Drifter’s leg to keep him there, moving his hips again against his knee. 

Drifter coughs to hide his laugh, wild and half-hysterical. “Don’t let a soul say you didn’t earn it.”

Shin grabs Drifter’s face with both of his hands and kisses him just as hard as before; Drifter gets an arm around the back of his head, holding him close as Shin pants for breath against his throat. Shin’s lungs ache with it, skin hot, hand throbbing as it heals slower than it should, and it takes the combined effort, one hand from each of them, to get Shin’s belt off enough for Drifter to wrap fingers around him.

“ _Fuck–_ ” Shin shivers all the way down his spine, injured hand falling to Drifter’s neck, smearing blood across his face, in his hair. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Drifter breathes, pressing him back into that chair with his bodyweight, leaning him into it, making Shin arch his back, tip his chin – 

Drifter wrings the orgasm out of him with the precision of a man on a mission, and Shin’s dizzy with it, already starved for relief. Once he finishes rocking into Drifter’s grip and making a mess of them both, Shin shoves Drifter back until he lands on the table. Drifter’s lucky he pushes the knife off the table before he lands on it; the dirty look he gives Shin tells him a stab wound wouldn’t have been a catalyst if it’d been _him_ on the line.

Shin works Drifter’s bottoms off just far enough that he can get his mouth on him. Shin swallows him down and the mess that comes with it, Drifter’s grip tight in his hair. Shin hums his approval around him, making Drifter swear and twitch and push him away when it gets to be too much. 

They stare at each other once they break apart, both panting. It’s a toss up for who looks worse. With one foot on the table and one leg hanging off, propped up on his elbows and face half-covered in dried blood, Drifter would be a shoo-in for it, if not for Shin’s finally healed right hand covered in blood all the way down his wrist, rumpled clothes, missing belt, glove only on the left. 

Shin wets his lips. “You didn’t mention the Hive dust. Really puts a damper on the healing.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Drifter says, raspy. “Didn’t I say there was a coating? Infused it or…something.” He waves through the air blearily, then drops completely against the table. 

Shin snorts and wipes some of the blood on Drifter’s knee before he stoops to retrieve the blade. After a moment of deep consideration, he transmats the knife to his inventory. He peels off his second glove, tosses it over his shoulder, and then with his decision made, he crawls onto the table, directly over Drifter.

Drifter blinks up at him, skeptical. Shin licks the tip of his thumb and starts rubbing at some of the blood closest to his mouth. He licks again when it’s not enough – but of course it’s not enough. Drifter’s hair is even messy with it where Shin dragged his hand over his head, dark strands sticking up on the side.

Throughout it all, Drifter squints at him, unreadable.

“You reap what you sow,” Shin says, low, and Drifter turns his face away with a huff…at least, until Shin catches his mouth in another lazy kiss, copper taste mingling on their tongues.

The reward, Shin decides, is not the knife. But it _is_ a nice plus.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
